15 Legends Can Be Murder

by Connie Shelton

  Joshua looked down at his lap. The handkerchief lay there, empty, the sandwich completely gone. He brushed off some breadcrumbs and stood up, bumping his head on the ceiling. He suppressed a curse.

  “Mr. Farmer? Are you all right up there?” came Mrs. McIlhaney’s voice.

  “Yes, ma’am. Just fine.”

  “You don’t want to miss the parade,” she called out. “It starts in a few minutes.” He heard the front door open and close.

  Parade? Right. It was the Fourth of July. He looked out his tiny window and saw a crowd gathering on the street. It would be the perfect time to catch Soapy Smith unaware. He folded Harry’s handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket, intending to return it as soon as he saw his friend.

  Looking around the room, he wished again for a gun. He had come unprepared for this journey in so many ways. The closest thing he had to a weapon was his razor and he reached into his bag, belatedly remembering that he had left his old one at home and had only brought the new safety razor Maddie had given him last Christmas. As a weapon it looked ridiculous and would perform even worse, barely causing a slice in the skin—if he could get close enough.

  He wondered if Mrs. McIlhaney had a gun in the house. He took the stairs carefully, making no sound, but she and the children had left for the parade. He peered into a few drawers in her small sitting room, then made his way to the kitchen. A wooden board sat on the worktable and, on top of it, a long knife. He tested to see whether it could be concealed inside his coat. Barely. He wrapped a dish towel around it to avoid cutting himself and carefully tucked the package into an inner pocket.

  Out on the street the crowd had thickened—men, women and children gathering to line the street. At the north end he could see the horse-drawn fire wagon with flags fluttering from the harnesses. Spectators began to cheer.

  He looked up and down the street, searching for the tan hat Soapy had been wearing this morning. Nearly everyone else wore black hats, but he didn’t spot a tan one in the crowd. He ran across the street ahead of the approaching wagon, ducking through the gathering and edging his way toward Holly Street.

  Piano notes and laughter, catching on the breeze, came from Jeff Smith’s Parlor. Apparently, gamblers didn’t care much about parades. From the sheer volume of male voices, Joshua knew it would be folly to enter the place and confront Soapy now. There were too many of the man’s cronies around. He crossed the street and tucked himself between two buildings, watching the entrance to the gambling house. His mind replayed the faro game, seeing now how the dealer must have cheated and how the other men had egged Joshua on in his bets. No wonder that miserable scum had a smile on his face all the time. He loved to watch innocent men lose their money. A flash of hot anger crawled through Joshua’s gut.

  On the next street over he could hear the cheers of the crowd at the parade. No one would come to investigate one more scream. He gripped the knife’s handle and freed it from its towel wrapping. He practiced a few times, pulling it out quickly, but when he nearly sliced his own wrist decided that it would be better to keep the weapon handy but out of sight. He gripped it in his right hand, holding it carefully down beside his leg.

  The front door to the Parlor opened. Soapy Smith! Joshua tensed, and adjusted his grip. But before Smith moved onto the street, three other men appeared. They positioned themselves around Smith, to all appearances just a casual group of friends taking a stroll. But no matter how Joshua looked at it, he would not be able to stab his prey without at least two of the men getting him first.

  They walked along three abreast, Soapy with a man on either side, then the third companion behind, guarding his back. Joshua watched them from across the street for a moment then fell into step behind them.

  Just as he was contemplating what it might require to disable the third guard and attain access to Soapy’s unguarded back, a woman stepped up to Soapy. She was gray haired and short, wearing a lavender dress and cream colored shawl; he thought he had seen her in church a few weeks ago. He ducked his head and rubbed at the bridge of his nose with his free hand, while the woman exclaimed that she was so happy to see Mr. Smith. She inquired whether he was doing well, and he gave a gentle laugh with a soft-spoken answer.

  A minute later, when the lady passed Joshua, he looked up to see that Soapy and his men had rounded the corner and were now within reach of the parade-crowded street. He debated following but knew that the men would tightly surround their boss and Joshua himself would be quickly taken down if he got near and drew the knife on Soapy.

  Perhaps a better idea ... he eyed the Parlor where piano music still rang out although the voices were quieter. Without Soapy and his thugs on hand, he could simply walk in, brandish the knife, and demand his money. The dealer knew how much Joshua had bet on the last hand. He was cheated! He could rightfully demand that money back!

  Holding the knife down at his side, he slipped across the street and glanced both directions to be sure Soapy was not returning. He edged toward the door and pushed it open with his left hand.

  The white-jacketed bartender was pouring whiskey for a lone man who sat at the bar. The musician was staring dreamily at a painting of a scantily-clad woman above the piano. Voices from the small betting room proved that the game was in progress. Joshua leaped toward them and gripped the knife.

  “Faro dealer! I want my money back!” he shouted.

  The music stopped dead. To his left Joshua caught sight of the bartender moving slowly to set the bottle down. Two players at the game table turned toward him, stunned, while the dealer just looked at him calmly.

  “I don’t believe I can accommodate that request,” he said softly.

  Joshua stepped forward. “I was cheated! You know it and all the men here know it. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I only want my money back.”

  “Well, see, son, that’s where we have a difference of opinion,” the man said, slipping his hand beneath the table. “You may feel you were cheated, you may not wish us any harm. But you see, unless you back out of here right this minute, several us will begin to wish you harm. A lot of harm.”

  The hand came upward with a pistol.

  Joshua spun around, intending to wield his knife at the closest person, but three more guns appeared, including a long .30-06 rifle from behind the bar. He nearly soiled himself.

  “I’d suggest you go on home, boy, and forget that you ever showed yourself here today.”

  Joshua felt his face go crimson and he nearly tripped over his own feet getting out the door. Laughter roared behind him. He stumbled down the single step to the sidewalk and felt arms close around his shoulders.

  “Whoa, whoa there,” said a familiar voice in his ear.

  “Harry?” His heart pounded so loudly Joshua could hardly think.

  “What’ve you got yourself into now?” his friend demanded, steering him west on Holly Street.

  Joshua allowed Harry to take the knife and they didn’t stop walking until they were two blocks away.

  “What were you thinking back there?” Harry asked.

  “I need my money back. I went to ask for it.”

  “With this?” Harry held the knife out of Joshua’s reach. “A kitchen knife?”

  Joshua’s embarrassment went all the way to his toes.

  “Look, man. You can’t handle it this way. You won’t get justice from Soapy Smith or any of his thugs and you’ll be the one who ends up dead.”

  Joshua stared at his shoes. After all Harry had done for him, to be caught at such a despicable thing.

  “Let’s return this to the poor lady you took it from. No doubt she’ll be needing it to prepare dinner tonight. Then let’s figure out a better answer for your situation.”

  “A better answer! What would that be? I came here to find gold and so far all I’ve found are merchants who charge a fortune for supplies, rooms higher than big-city prices, and cheaters on every corner. How am I supposed to finance my journey with those obstacles in my way?” His voice grew loud
er with each accusation. “I’m damned, no matter what I do!”

  A family passed by, leaving the parade on Broadway, no doubt. The man told Joshua to watch his language in front of the women and children.

  Harry slid the knife out of sight and put a restraining hand on Joshua’s shoulder. “Walk with me,” he said quietly.

  They headed toward the McIlhaney house where Harry set the knife on the cutting board next to the dish towel, only moments before the front door opened and the family returned.

  “Ma’am,” Joshua said, his voice still a little shaky, “this is my friend Harry Weaver. He was kind enough to loan me a handkerchief earlier in the day and I asked him to stop by so I could return it.” He pulled the white cloth from his pocket and folded it neatly before handing it over.

  Mrs. McIlhaney smiled and directed the children to go wash their hands. “I’ll have supper ready in an hour,” she told Joshua. “Mr. Weaver, you are welcome to join us.”

  Harry declined politely, but the moment her back was turned he sent Joshua a meaningful look before he left. Joshua went to his room and began a letter to Maddie, putting a bright tone in his words and, frankly, including a few outright fabrications. He could never admit to her that he wasn’t farther along in his quest by now.

  The dinner hour was a struggle. Joshua’s anger boiled just under the surface. Each time he tried to follow the conversation or respond to a question, his mind went back to the sight of his cash disappearing at that gaming table. He finally thanked his landlady and pleaded tiredness so he could be alone in his room.

  He didn’t know how, but he would find a way to get that money back.

  Chapter 12

  Drake came up behind me, smelling of eucalyptus shampoo, and planted a kiss on the top of my head. I was at the kitchen table, still batting zero with the sketchy information I was able to provide to the missing-person websites.

  “So, do I win the bet with Barney?” I asked, giving my husband a sideways glance.

  “Depends. Did either of you bet that the emergency at Cabin Three would consist of Junior forgetting his backpack, the one with the spare batteries to some video game he couldn’t live without?”

  I felt my gaze go toward the ceiling. “Seriously?”

  “The backpack was where he had stashed it, under the seat.” He opened the refrigerator door. “What do you say we go out, maybe find a pizza or something?”

  Well, he didn’t have to ask twice. I closed my computer and picked up my jacket before the fridge light went out. We walked toward the bustle on Broadway.

  “And, it was lucky that I carried a spare satellite phone with me. The father had actually called his office in New York and asked them to ship more batteries for the kid—with no clue what address they could use. He must have stayed on the call quite awhile because the phone was more than half depleted. He sputtered a bit when I told him there would be a charge for the extra flight.”

  I could well imagine. People don’t have a clue.

  “And the nanny and the mother?” I asked as we stepped inside Gino’s Pizza. More than one person had told us it was the best in town. It must have been true—there was one empty table and the air smelled of yeasty crust and Italian spices.

  “I didn’t see the wife,” he said, holding my chair out for me. “The nanny was trying to get the kids organized and equipped to try their hand at panning some gold from the creek. She seemed more enthused about it than they did.”

  He stared at the menu for a minute after we ordered drinks. “So, you looked pretty busy when I came in. Making any progress?”

  We ordered a large pizza and I filled him in on my conversation with Ron and my hour’s worth of fruitless web searches.

  “I understood that the workers hired for the pipeline were all union,” he said, taking a sip from his frosty beer mug. “Maybe they would have records.”

  I had no idea which unions or how we might go about finding those records, but it was as solid a lead as we’d come up with yet. He named a few that might have been represented on that type of job—welders, teamsters, heavy equipment operators. I filed the thought in the back of my mind for now and concentrated instead on putting away as much of the steaming, cheesy pizza as I could manage.

  “It’s a good thing we have to walk back to the house,” I said later. “If I don’t work off a little of that meal, I’ll never sleep tonight.”

  He took the box containing the leftovers; we’d barely hit the halfway mark on the huge pie. We strolled a few blocks out of our way, and I have to admit that I felt less stuffed by the time we reached the house. Freckles talked me into another short walk before we finally settled in for the night.

  Drake lit a fire and I found myself dozing on the sofa beside him, but when I tried lying in bed the heavy dinner didn’t settle well. I pulled on a fleece top with my flannel jammies and fuzzy socks, padded quietly back to the living room and pulled out the box of old letters.

  I hadn’t really taken everything out of the box yet, had only started with a stack of bound envelopes postmarked from Alaska. There was a second stack, these with feminine handwriting and a San Francisco return address, addressed simply to Joshua Farmer, Skagway, Alaska. I flipped through the postmarks and opened one.

  June 28, 1898

  Dearest Husband,

  We are well although our little Isabelle misses her father, as do I. She is walking now, very confident in her steps until she takes a tumble. It is quite amusing to watch her as she works at the problem and tries again. Mother and Father are enjoying our company, I believe, although it feels odd to be sleeping in my childhood bedroom.

  What wonderful news you sent! I am so pleased that you were successful in acquiring the necessary equipment for your journey. And I am much relieved that you will have two traveling companions. The trail must be terribly lonely and frightful with no companionship. Your news has eased my mind. I do hope that you will be able to find a way to send letters to me during the journey. Are there civilized outposts along the way? I live beside the windows, watching for the postman on his rounds.

  I envision a time in only a few months when you will return to us. My daily prayers are directed toward this outcome.

  Your faithful and loving wife,

  Maddie McDowell Farmer

  After falling asleep in the chair and dragging myself to bed sometime in the wee hours, I did somehow manage a decent night’s sleep. I woke to the sounds of Drake puttering in the kitchen, and came out to discover that he had not only taken care of the dog’s needs but he was whisking eggs in a bowl in preparation for omelets. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that a slice of plain toast was more in order after that huge dinner but since I couldn’t be rude about it, I managed to put away a plateful of fluffy eggs with a healthy scattering of vegetables sautéed into them.

  My phone rang as I was clearing the table. Mina.

  “I just filed my assignment for the week,” she said, “so I’m hoping we can get together and toss around some ideas about the case. Maybe over breakfast?”

  I nearly groaned but told her I could probably manage a cup of tea while she ate. We agreed to meet at Tootie’s Place in twenty minutes. Despite being stuffed to the gills I had to admit that the kitchen scents were heavenly and Mina’s bear claw pastry looked good enough to risk clogging an artery for. I forced myself not to stare at it.

  “Sorry I was tied up with my other story,” she said after taking an enviably huge bite of the pastry. “Were you able to find anything that might help us?”

  I filled her in on Ron’s recommendations and my efforts to ferret out some names. “We just don’t have enough details to really get anything from most databases. But Drake suggested that we follow the angle that our victim might have been a union worker. He says all the pipeline labor was union.”

  “That’s a good idea. I wonder which one.”

  I felt a little hopeless there, with absolutely no experience along those lines.

  “I know wh
ere we might find out,” Mina said, mumbling around another bite of cinnamon filling. “Wilbur’s got a brother who has mentioned working on the pipeline. Maybe he’ll talk to us.”

  That’s how we found ourselves, at ten o’clock, arriving at the home of Don Clayton. The place was a neat little frame house, only two blocks from the one Drake and I were renting from Mina’s mother.

  Mr. Clayton greeted us at the door, making sure we noticed the dahlias blooming near the front porch. His white hair glowed in the bright sunlight and his blue eyes were punctuated by rays of squint-wrinkles.

  “The wife loved gardening more than anything,” he said with a hint of sadness. “I’ve tried to keep all her best plants alive.”

  “I guess Wilbur told you why we were asking about your work on the pipeline,” I began, once we’d settled onto nearby wooden chairs.

  “Something about the unions?” His wrinkles deepened a little.

  “We’re actually trying to find out the identity of a man who died nearby, sometime in the 1970s. The pipeline came to mind because it brought so many new people to the state, and my husband said all the labor for the job was unionized.”

  “That’s right,” Don said. “It’s how I came here, myself. I was a welder back in Oklahoma, heard about the work here. Gosh, the pay was good. If you could avoid gambling away your money or blowing it on a vacation to Hawaii you could put away a lot of savings. That’s what I did. Saved nearly every penny for three years, invested it in mutual funds.”

  “I bet the work was pretty exciting,” I said.